


Sillage

by iwillwalk500miles



Series: i'm so thankful (no longer painful) [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Falling In Love, Five Plus One Things, Grief/Mourning, Historical References, I love her, Jaune is oblivious, POV Second Person, Pyrrha still dies, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Trans Jaune Arc, anyway, gratuitous use of the word 'always' and 'destiny' and 'love', i'M SAD, i'm dealing with stuff leave me alone, mentions of bullying, pyrrha is obvious, taking joan of arc and achilles to a whole new level babs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21830854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwillwalk500miles/pseuds/iwillwalk500miles
Summary: And you fall in love with her.Always.orFive times Jaune knew he loved Pyrrha, and the one time she seemed to love him.orjoan wasn't only a martyr (and achilles wasn't only a god of rage)
Relationships: Jaune Arc/Pyrrha Nikos
Series: i'm so thankful (no longer painful) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612696
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	Sillage

**Author's Note:**

> please don't read if you want a happy ending

The thing about getting into Beacon is it shouldn’t have happened. There was a point, a small ripple in your past where the opportunity to create something of the life you’d been given popped up. It was so easy, faking your way forward, listening to the stories and examining everything and anything about the huntsman—about the destiny that you’d chosen for yourself. The thing about getting into Beacon is it shouldn’t have happened, and that’s that—there is no ‘if, and, or, but’ about it, it just shouldn’t have happened to you. By all means you shouldn’t have been given the opportunity, shouldn’t have been you out of all those people—good, actually _trained,_ people—there is nothing that stops the constant voice in your mind that says: _you should not be here._

And that’s that.

Except, no—it _isn’t_ just that. Not at all. Maybe you shouldn’t be here, maybe you’re going to get yourself killed, maybe Saffron had a point in saying you should take your time, but… you couldn’t wait. It had called to you, distant and beautiful like the setting of the sun, whispering in it’s purples and oranges and reds— _find me, find me, protect them, protect them._ And so you had.

(It came to you, holy and saintly—awe-inspiring and one of a kind, it had kissed you just beneath your ear, divine fingers brushing the shape of your jaw and slope of your neck, searing bravery and determination there, telling you that all you had to do to save people was to believe… you hadn’t done it, hadn’t given it a second thought other than _‘I’m not strong enough’_ and then… and then you met _her.)_

She was a warrior.

She was brave.

She smiled at you, and you knew.

She believed.

( _Always_.)

But none of that mattered, not anymore.

(It did matter actually, you're just sad and angry and in love with the ghost of a girl you'll never see again.) 

The first time you fell in love with her, you were dangling from a tree—on the verge of tears and anger. A whimper escaped your mouth, because your hoodie was _seriously_ starting to choke you, and a small laugh had met you from the base of the trees. 

You look down, and it strikes you that you know this girl in front of you.

Pyrrha. 

You don’t know her that well… but she told you that you could be a good leader, that she believed in you—her words had carved it’s way into your heart, nestling and engraving themselves into your chest, bloody and raw. 

You don’t know it yet, but you love her, entirely and endlessly—totally and forever. 

( _Always_.)

She gets you down from the tree, gently brushing the wood and dirt from your hood, grinning and gently soothing your pride—though making sure not to give you too much of a big head, and is content to allow you to stumble forward, searching for what the two of you will need.

She unlocks your aura, whispering words in a language you don’t recognize, it’s familiar to her like French is to you, familiar in such a way you know that it must be something passed down from her parents, from the people who loved her.

(Later, with a sad smile, she tells you the language was Greek, and you fall in love.)

The second time you fall in love with her, she is holding your face in her hands and telling you that she can help you, that you can be a hero.

You _know_ you’re incompetent, you know that you have a lot to learn, you know that you can’t do this alone—and still your pride trips you up, lays heavy on your shoulders like a festering shriveled up parasite, whispering words of discontent and venom. It’s when she brushed her fingers through your hair, palms the line of your jaw and curve of your cheek, that you fall in love with her. 

It burns now, the trap that you’d so carelessly fallen into, the way the green of her eyes were so disappointed, so sad—the way that you’d caused an ache in her that went so unnoticed, so unloved.

But you loved her, you did, you loved her from that moment in the forest, the moment she’d smiled at you—you loved her as she gripped your face, as she whispered words of Greek… of strength and devotion.

You loved her, you _swear_ you did. You promise to all gods, old and new, to every deity that ever existed or maybe didn't—that you loved her.

( _Always_.)

Cardin controls you, he bullies you, he _hurts_ you—but you could never allow him to do anything to her… not her—who is so good, and kind, and even though you shouldn’t love her because you would never have any kind of chance in the world you do anyway. 

You love her, so you stop him.

(She would’ve been fine, you know, all of them would’ve been… but if you could stop the lesson of pain from bestowing itself like a gift upon her and the rest, it was always a risk you would find yourself taking.) 

The third time you fall in love with her, you’re telling her about your sisters. You whisper about Saffron, about her wife and newborn baby (your nephew!) You tell her that you miss your father, and the twins, and your mother—you tell her that they mistook you for something else, mistook you for the seventh of the seventh, a mistake that your mother fixed with a quick haircut and a pair of overalls and the words _‘my son.’_

You tell her that the things you feel, you feel desperately, and you tell her why you had to leave your family behind. 

It isn’t just honor, not really, it isn’t just that you wanted to make something of yourself. It’s like a duty, a mission and drive you had ever since that sunset ( _ever since something holy had kissed you just under your ear and said—_ ) It’s like a skin you can’t shed, a sense of divine righteousness you know you could never ignore. You know it’s different from her reasons, even if you never really knew them that well, you know it’s different from the flame of glory that lights itself on fire in her eyes, different from the life of fame and love she longs to have. 

But you tell her anyway, because you know that she will listen and she will understand. 

Afterwords, she draws you into a hug, a deep lingering thing that sets everything on fire—like her name. 

(You may have been studying the Greek language when you thought she wasn’t looking, just like she was studying French when she though you weren’t looking.)

Sometime after this, after you tell her everything about your family and your determination and the burn you feel just behind your left ear when you feel hopeless. You know that tears trickle from your eyes when you tell her that she’s brilliant, and that you really don’t deserve her—and you laugh it off, making a dumb joke afterwards that falls flat and makes you look less charming than before. 

She doesn’t know that you love her, and because of that you seem to love her _more_.

(It’s because she doesn’t need you to be something, because she is strong and independent and reminds you of the flames that your grandfather used to conjure in jars for you before he passed away, staring at you spitefully from his bed and frowning at your scabbed knees and sloppy hair.)

She doesn’t know that you love her, and she places her head on your shoulder, lips brushing against the spot below your ear—just above your neck, and you know.

You love her.

( _Always_.)

The fourth time you fall in love with her, the leaves have turned orange and yellow. 

(She places a leaf in your hair, and tells you she loves because it blends, because it’s you—Jaune, yellow. You ask her if she loves autumn, missing the point on purpose because if she loves you—really loves you, you don’t know what you might do. She smiles, small and sad, she says yes, and that is that.)

You dance, because you tried to get over yourself and ask Weiss to join you because you knew that she’d say no—that she was too busy staring at Neptune and maybe Ruby and maybe even Pyrrha to ever even _entertain_ the thought of you. 

It turns out that Weiss asks Neptune, and you find yourself blowing up at him when you find out why he said no, you trip up on yourself, on that festering heavy mass on your back that whispers that you are nothing, and call him a coward.

(But you’re a coward too, and you don’t believe, don’t believe in destiny… in anything, so you put on a dress and smile and dance.)

Every move you make burns you, it builds from your legs and upward, like you were tied to something and it was set alight—and as she watches you the flames lick at your face, searing your unshed tears to your cheeks. She is a flame, and what are you? What are you but a coward, too tripped up on things like pride and fear to ever entertain the thought that maybe you ought to start _believing—_

(And the mark under your ear burns, where divinity blessed something that wasn’t there, where her lips had brushed against your skin.)

But you love her, so you smile, and pretend not to notice her fingers tracing the moles and freckles that litter your shoulder blades like constellations.

She smiles at you, and you fall in love.

( _Always_.)

The fifth time you fall in love you nearly kiss her. It isn’t a big event, it isn’t hard or fast or messy—but slow, steady, as easy as running water. You’re training, like you do everyday since you swallowed your pride, and she’s chiding you playfully.

You always forget your defense, she tells you, you always rush in and fall prey to the victim of battle.

She is a warrior, so she knows what she’s talking about. 

(But she isn’t you, so she doesn’t know why you rush, why the desperation claws at your throat like the creatures of darkness your meant to fight, gleaming crimson eyes that match the gush of blood that escapes your throat as you yourself claw at—)

You smile at her and apologize.

She smiles at you, and says saying sorry won’t fix your shitty footwork.

Your laugh is startled, and you fall in love. 

She’s close to you now, just a breath away, and if you wanted you think you could kiss her. It’s only really a second, but you lose yourself in an eternity of dreams—one where she kisses you back, your cheek, your nose, your eyelids, one where she brushes her fingertips gently against the mark below your ear—pressing her lips there only a moment later.

(Pyrrha isn’t divinity entirely, she makes mistakes and yearns for something you can’t see, but she is blessed nonetheless, half of the holiness that lay in the sign of the cross you catch Ruby holding and mumbling to sometimes.)

The second passes, and she smacks you with the flat edge of her spear.

When your head hits the ground, you fall in love.

( _Always_.)

When she first loved you, it was dark.

Only it wasn’t the first time, it was just the first that you’d actually noticed, that has been spelled out so obviously for you it was impossible for you to miss it.

In truth, the first time she loved you, you had just whispered to her why you were at Beacon, the falsehoods that lay in your past and the way the mark under your ear burns so badly. In truth, she’d loved you from the moment it was revealed you were willing to learn, to try—and though you did not know it, she knew that there was never a moment that you didn’t believe. 

In destiny.

In hers, at least.

(You’d believed that no one would dare ever forget her name, she’d laughed and given you a hug. You didn’t know you’d spoken the truth.)

It is the first time you _know_ she loves you, and it is not at all the lazy rose-colored dreams you’d hoped for.

Someone is screaming, you don’t know who, but you hear their shouts turn to pained gurgling and then silence and holy hell someone has just died—

She grabs your cheeks and tells you to keep fighting, to believe, and not to look. 

There’s a look in her eye as you fight together, back to back, one that you now realize had the solemn gaze of a martyr. She’d been like that ever since she’d gotten back from that covert meeting with Ozpin, like she knew that she’d fall and not get back up soon. You’d been afraid of it, the cold seeping into her gaze, a look so unusual for her—but you’d let it be, let her have her secrets, and prayed she’d turn to you eventually.

(There was a great rage building in her heart, a great blinding anger on behalf of someone you didn’t know, someone you’d never get to meet—but only hear stories about later on, while you mourn.)

There is a tower.

There is a grimm.

There is a sad smile.

When she kisses you, you know that you are doomed to a life without her. 

There was a story your father used to tell you, one of a warrior bathed in fire and flame, bathed in a soul sucking river and made better for it. He told you late in the night, a storm rages outside, and the rest of your sister are already asleep. He whispers about the great warrior, how he fought valiantly, how he angered, how he knew a short life with glory was better than a long one with none at all. He spoke of the warrior, who knew he would die, who knew that his destiny was to burn in a blazing shroud of fire, for his ash and bones to be spread with the person he loved. He brushes the blonde hair from your head, rough hands tickling you and making your nose wrinkle up in silent laughter. He deepens his voice, almost serious, _my journey home is gone, but my glory never dies._

There was a story your mother used to tell you, one of a warrior who grew sporadically and listlessly, who ran through dust and dirt, and was made better for it. She told you as the sun beat down upon all of your siblings, all seven of you covered in laughter and water—taking a break from the crops that had always surrounded your home. She spoke of the great warrior, blessed by divinity—who’d not been afraid, whose resolve was unshakable, and even through deceit and death had been believed in the destiny she’d created for herself. She smiled, eyes sparkling as she whispered the words of the great warrior, she who believed, who’d known that she would die, burning and alone, but never once faltered. She made great big gestures, gripping your sister and twirling her around as she playfully made her voice solemn, _I am not afraid, I was born to do this._

You loved both tales, and because you know that Pyrrha embodies both of them, you love them more. 

She leaves you, lips tingling and trapped inside a locker, screaming and begging, she leaves you—forever.

The mark under your ear burns, and you _believe_.

_(And you fall in love with her.)_

_(Always.)_


End file.
